The View From My Little Red Chair

Damn You, Father Time

2011-04-19T08:00:00.003-06:00

Turning 5 is a much bigger deal than I thought.

It's April again. This is the one month of the year that never fails to remind me of the passage of time in my life. My first-born son was born in the month of April, as was my third-born son. My father passed away in the month of April. Tax returns are due. Every year, without fail, April brings milestones, laughter, celebration, recollection and tears. Thankfully, the joys of the month far outweigh the lows. I'm even more thankful that my middle son's birthday is in July.

It is 2011, which means this April has marked the 9th birthday for my eldest, and the 5th birthday for my youngest. Each year, my mental preparation for their birthdays starts in March and by early April I'm knee deep in birthday-related errands. This year was no different. I sent the party invitations out. I ordered the balloons. I wrapped the gifts. I power-cleaned the house for the parties. I really thought I was ready for the whirlwind of activity. As it turns out, however, I wasn't prepared for the surprisingly emotional significance that this April has brought.

When all of my boys were ages 4 and under, I still thought of them as "little". Physically small in stature, with various reserves of baby pudge in at least one or two places...notably the most targeted spots on their body for thousands of kisses from me. As "little" kids, they were still refreshingly innocent, exploring their world and making discoveries to their pure delight. They loved being on me, or near me. They welcomed me to be a part of everything they were doing...playing, eating, exploring, sleeping...everything. Every object and experience was new and magical; it was pure joy to witness and share it all with them.

I have, in my mind, considered the "5th Birthday" as a turning point for my boys. They went from being "little" to "not little anymore". Being 5 means starting kindergarten. It means taking the training wheels off the bike. It means we've been to the zoo dozens of times by now, and they know all the animals. It means they like to do most things by themselves. It means they just aren't "little" anymore. They are on their way toward "growing up". They know there's a big world out there and they can't wait to experience the liberties afforded to "grown ups". They have no desire to remain "little" and I am a lot less needed by them.

Reflecting on the past birthdays of my first two boys, I now realize that I was afforded at least one fall-back "little" kid to get me through their milestone, aka "turning point", 5th birthdays. It was truly a blessing to my psyche which, I'm discovering, is more fragile than I would have ever thought. When my oldest turned 5, I had two other sons, ages 3 1/2 and 1...still blessedly "little" and still packing a lot of baby pudge. Turns out that was a great distraction to the fact that my first-born was growing up. When my second son turned 5, my youngest was only 2 1/2...that left me a good couple of years to enjoy his "littleness" while his big brothers continued growing up. Alas, this year my baby turned 5. In an instant, I suddenly had no more fall-back options. I'm left with the realization of the hard fact that all of my boys are growing up. My nest is no longer lined in baby pudge to comfort me as I watch them do it. There's nobody left to welcome me to be a part of every thing they are doing. I'm feeling a lot less needed and, after nine years of being elbows deep in raising my "little" boys, it's a strange feeling and one I wasn't prepared for.

This April has thrown me for an emotional loop. I baked the cakes, lit the candles, laughed, hugged and kissed my boys...all with a sincere "Happy Birthday!" to the two of them this month. In private, in reflection, I feel like I'm grieving a loss, of sorts. I'm not handling my new reality very well. I have been harshly slapped in the face by Father Time and, try as I might to prevent him from doing it, he has closed a chapter on my life that I can never get back. I am left only with the memories, photos and videos to try and recapture the sensations I experienced with my "little" boys...the smells, the sounds, the touches. But I don't want another baby to fill the void. I just want my "little" boys back for a day or two. To squeeze, to smell...to see the world through their eyes again. I can't have that...so, I will mourn my loss for a bit. I know that this, too, shall pass. In time, it won't sting to see their baby pictures and be reminded that those days are gone. In time, I will look back at this entry and wonder what the big deal was. Time, though, will be my double-edged sword for a bit. Time will heal my hurting heart and I will no longer yearn for my "little" boys to come back to me. But, time will also bring me closer to the end of my next chapter as a mom. If the next 9 years of motherhood go by as quickly as the first 9 have, that means my oldest will be leaving my home. I can't even imagine what that will be like.

My boys are growing up; I'm not naive enough to think it's gonna be all hugs and kisses in the process. I am emotionally preparing myself for all of it. I acknowledge that Father Time will continue turning the pages, against my will. So, I will be writing this next chapter in motherhood with a new perspective. I will experience my growing boys with heightened senses...every conversation we have, every touch we share, every smile they bless me with...I'm going to hold onto it. I am going to etch it in my memory and, at the end of the day, relive the moments as much as I can. And I will remind myself to enjoy it and to experience it for all it is. For, one day, too soon, this chapter will close. And I'd like to say, with a smile on my face, that I was prepared for it.

Thrifty Makes a Comeback

2010-10-25T15:55:00.003-06:00

I realized a couple of weeks ago that I rarely use coupons anymore. I used to be so good about clipping coupons and methodically filing them away in my plastic coupon binder. I even had a membership to The Grocery Game, and prided myself on saving a minimum of 40% per trip to the grocery store. Alas, I honestly can't remember the last time I applied scissors to a coupon insert in the Sunday paper.

Well, I have a renewed sense of determination to stretch my husband's well-earned dollars as far as I can. I clipped some coupons today and even located my old "coupon organizer" from the cupboard. I must say, I'm feeling rather proud of myself. I'm saving money AND getting organized! As I was clearing out the old coupons I had so casually abandoned, I noticed the expiration dates: March and April of 2006. 2006! How can it possibly be four YEARS since I last clipped a coupon? What on earth happened in my life, so abruptly, that it has taken me FOUR YEARS to get back on that bandwagon? Hang on...it's coming to me...Adam. Adam happened. He was born in April of 2006 and instantly became my legitimate excuse for not saving money, nor for staying organized. Now he's old enough to wield his own pair of blunt-tip scissors and can help me start clipping...I sure hope he's better at "saving" than I am.

I ♥ Memories of Dad

2010-07-31T11:05:00.002-06:00

Isn't the mind an amazing thing? The capabilities are boggling. Keep this memory...delete that one...ignore the other one for a bit until a better time. Oh, sure, the whole computation, innovation and survival stuff is cool, too. But I think, more than anything, the capacity for storing and sifting through memories is our mind's best feature.

I miss my dad. I'm positive there will never be a time when I don't miss him. It never fails to happen as I recall so many fond memories. Even not-so-fond memories crop up every once in a while...and I STILL miss him. I like that.

Baby Diet

2010-07-30T08:12:00.014-06:00

I've been blessed with most of my dad's genes*. He had the best metabolism...he could eat anything he wanted and stayed thin as a rail. Blessedly, he passed that same "stay skinny" gene along to me. It was a curse when I was young. Imagine every time you tried on pants, they slid (yep, slid) to your ankles because you had no waist or butt to hold them up...and, back in the 70's, belts weren't cute on girls**. I had to buy boy's jeans because they actually came with waist sizes and were designed to fit my boyish figure. They also came in lengths that were long enough for my legs because, I failed to mention earlier, I also inherited my dad's "abnormally long legs" gene, too. Imagine being the tallest kid in the class, towering over the boys and wondering if I'd soon surpass the teacher...but, I digress and that's a topic for another post***.

The curse of being super skinny turned to an advantage when I hit college. Holy crow, could I pack down the beers, the pizza and the ramen noodles****. I never had to worry about my waistline because I had the "stay skinny" gene on my side. It even carried me through my 20's and right on into my first pregnancy. The only way you could tell I was pregnant was if I stood sideways...I carried all the weight out front*****...never around my waist. That's where it all ended. Not only did I give birth to my first son, it seems I also birthed that glorious "stay skinny" gene out of my body as well. I didn't know it at the time but, looking back, I'm pretty sure that's what happened.

I was able to burn off the pregnancy pounds pretty quickly...sleep deprivation, nursing and not having time to throw anything other than a Wheat Thin in my mouth during mealtimes had an amazing effect on my body. When Ben was only 6 months old, I found out I was pregnant with Colin (we'll save the "nursing is a natural contraceptive" debate for another post as well). So, when I started forcing myself to eat more than just a few Wheat Thins for the sake of the baby and suddenly started gaining weight, it all made sense. Colin was born and I had a toddler to boot. For years (and I mean years!) I spent my days running...running...running after my boys. And, I managed to keep everyone, including myself, well fed. The laundry and house cleaning suffered but that's, yet again, a topic for another post.

Then came Adam and the cycle continued, as did my delusions about my super metabolism, for a couple of years. The delusions abruptly halted about two years ago. I realized I wasn't naturally fitting into my size 4 jeans anymore...I had to spend some time on the eliptical and couldn't eat as many desserts as I'd like. I thought maybe it was just a phase and I'd get through it and back into my size 4's in no time. Well, it's been a long time since my size 4's and now I'm not sure what's going on with my size 6's.

Examining the past eight years, I've concluded that I was engaged in a Baby Diet. Having a baby meant I was guaranteed a few years of non-stop activity and could keep my weight in check. I, falsely, assumed it was my super metabolism keeping me well-proportioned. I now know it was the repetitive Baby Diet (did I mention I had three boys in the span of four years?). It's been four years since having a newborn and 2 years since having a toddler...when I do the math, that just about equates to my not-so-roomy size 6's. Either I get back on the Baby Diet or get back on the eliptical...and the treadmill...and the pilates mat. We took measures****** a couple years ago to rule out option number one, so I guess I'm stuck with exercising. Perhaps, if I run fast enough on the treadmill, I might just be able to catch that "stay skinny" gene I expelled all those years ago, and I can gulp it back down with a brownie and a glass of milk?

* except for the abnormally long arms and the flat chest, both of which looked great on him but not so great on a girl.

** I'm pretty sure I have pictures to prove this. Nor were belts effective on girls because I'm pretty sure they were located somewhere just below your chest which didn't do much for holding up pants.

*** based on my previous entry about ADHD, said post will likely never happen.

**** that's all I could afford to eat after spending all my money on beverages.

***** that's not entirely true. I also carried a couple pounds in my ankles - guess Dad didn't pass along a "super skinny ankles during pregnancy" gene.

****** now, that might be a fun post for the future!

Focus Pills

2010-07-18T22:24:00.006-06:00

It's been nearly a year since my last blog entry. That's because I tried to solve world hunger, and it just took a little longer than I anticipated*.

My beautiful, loving, tender seven-year-old son has, among many other traits & talents, ADHD. Right before school began last year, we decided to give ADHD meds a try. We call them "Focus Pills" and, yes, they absolutely help him focus on the task at hand - his academic progress last year is a testament to the effects Ritalin can have on a child's achievement.

We knew from the time he was 2 years old that something was "up" with his brain**...and had an inkling that it might be ADHD by the time he was 4. We started having him assessed when he was 3; three or four in-depth assessments later, the therapies began at age 5***. The ADHD diagnosis came just before he turned 6 and Focus Pills started right before the school year began. My own self analysis started shortly thereafter.

There's some pretty strong theories that ADHD can be hereditary and I, for one, subscribe to the theory. Why? Because I, for one, now see my beautiful son's ADHD traits in myself. And that is why I am at peace with the fact that it's been nearly a year since my last blog entry. I'm not sure I can even tell you what's kept me so busy over the last year that would explain my absence...but, hereditary odds are pretty high, it was nothing (yet everything) all at the same time. I think I need to see a doctor about some Focus Pills for myself - the trick will be making the appointment before I get side-tracked by the million-and-one other things going on around me on my way to the phone.

* I think I just got side-tracked too many times.
** Licking the refrigerator and walking on his toes all the time was a big clue.
*** BIG fan of therapy, btw!

I Just Can't Seem to Finish A...

2009-07-28T21:25:00.003-06:00

sentence. project. chore. thought. beer. hobby. task. Any of these words, tacked on to the title of my post, complete a sentence which accurately reflects a bit about me.

Ask my husband. He'll point you right to our Home Office and you'll immediately understand. As I sit here and look around this little room, I can identify seven distinct attempts I've made at something and then ultimately left hanging. I see scrap-booking stuff (haven't touched it in at least 2 years). Jewelry-making supplies (haven't had time in the last 2 months to do any designing). The "To Be Shredded" pile of papers sitting next to the shredder (no excuse...just don't want to do it). Clothes bin full of boys' winter clothes that need to be returned to the basement until next winter. Filing (oh. my. word.). Bills (oh crud! I should probably not leave those hanging). Interior design ideas to be filed for future reference and future expendable income.

What's my deal? I could so easily blame it on having kids. Something like "I never have time now that I'm a mom". But, honestly, I think it's more innate than that. I guess I'll have to do some more analyzing when I get the time...but I need to finish the laundry first.

Social Networking Whobie Whatie

2009-07-26T21:08:00.000-06:00

"To tweet, or not to tweet"...that is the question. Or...is the question really "To blog, or not to blog"? Or, perhaps, "To Facebook, or not to Facebook"? I'm not even gonna pose the one about MySpace...the answer to that is most definitely "Not in my lifetime."

I've officially dabbled in all of the above - minus the MySpace. And, I have to say...huh. It's kinda weird when you think about it. Posting your thoughts, your actions, your life for people to see. But, for me, it's incredibly cathartic, and I'm fairly normal so it's not like I'll be posting anything intriguing. Since I'm not inclined to share my innermost secrets (do I have any??) via the webisphere, I think I'll keep mingling in the various networking tools to see if I find my little niche...or, until I get bored, I suppose. "When in Rome..." as they say.

A Reluctant Soccer Mom

2009-05-21T08:58:00.016-06:00

I don't do "Social". Well...I do it, but I don't like it. Actually...I do like it, but only when it's on my terms.

My entire life, I've been an introvert. I wouldn't consider myself "shy", nor "soft-spoken"...just introverted. I like keeping my little corner of the world quaint and familiar...solid and supportive...with an occassional dash of spontaneous "whim" to keep my inner extrovert quiet and well-behaved.

I grew up in a small family in Colorado: two parents, an older brother, and a younger sister. The majority of my extended family lives on the west coast, and a few more over in Florida. There were very few trips to visit those extended family members so, for all intents and purposes, I consider myself as having grown up in a small, somewhat sheltered*, family.

It comes as no surprise, in my retroactive self-analysis, that I have grown into an introverted woman.** Don't get me wrong; I love to be outside, chatting with friends and neighbors over a beer, watching all the kiddos play in the cul-de-sac. I really enjoy going out for pedicures and/or dessert with my close girlfriends. But, that's all on my terms. I socialize when I choose (usually it depends on 2 factors: (1) the weather, and (2) whether I'm wearing anything covered in stains, which were likely put there by my boys)...and I'm happy. I'm comfortable being an introvert. But there is a little inner extrovert in me that wishes I was an outdoor-enthusiastic & sporty, yet fashionable & social, butterfly who is, in the words of my cousin-in-law "grabbing life by the ears".

If I had a choice, I'd like my boys to grow into extroverted men, with little introverted personalities who occassionally like to read a book or have a heart-to-heart chat with their sweetie. So...for fear of breeding introverted sons, I've had to make very conscious decisions to involve them in various activities with their peers***...sports, playdates, birthday parties...those kinds of things.

I really love seeing my boys making friends and experiencing things that I never did as a kid, but really wish I had. I love going to their games and chearing on them and their teammates. I happily encourage them to pick out a little gift that their buddy would love for his birthday celebration. I have a great time meeting a compatible mom and her son at the park so the kids can get together and we moms can chat. But, with that parental support & encouragement comes the risk of...unsolicited socializing...with other parents...gah. It's not on my terms, and it forces me out of my introverted comfort zone. I find I'm reluctantly pushed into socializing on someone else's terms, and I really don't care for it. The snack schedules that the "Team Mom" forces on everyone. The "End-of-Season Pot Luck" that we're expected to attend and contribute to. The "Trophy Presentations" that we have to 'oooo' and 'awww' over when each kid on the team is acknowledged for all their contributions to the team's success...even though none of the leagues are competitive, it's all recreational, there's no winning team and yet, unfailingly, every single season each one of our boys comes home with a plastic trophy that instantly gets mangled in some little tussle because they were playing Star Wars and thought they'd use their trophy as an impromptu light saber. Or, the birthday party where parents are expected to stay and mingle with the other parents of all the kids, even though the kids are old enough to know they'd really wish Mom and Dad would just leave so they can have a good time with their friends and not have to be chaperoned by so many grown-ups.

I go through the motions...with a smile on my face, and making polite small talk with the other parents. But, inside I'm reeling in discomfort. I really wish my inner extrovert would hurry up and take over.

* As my siblings and I have aged and dissected our childhood experiences, I have concluded that we were definitely sheltered. Unfortunately, as I had few close relationships with anyone outside my family, I have no gauge to estimate just how sheltered we really were.

** This is not to be confused with "reclusive". I'm not one of those OCD, animal-hording ladies that you only catch a glimpse of through the window.

*** I wish I could say my boys get to see their extended family on a regular basis, but it's interesting how history repeats itself: my brother and his family live in California; my sister and her family live in Arizona; and I'm still here with my family in Colorado. Sheltered? Nah.

Biting Myself in the Butt

2009-05-19T21:45:00.000-06:00

Wouldn't it be great if I could just call a jackass a jackass?

Sometimes I get soooo tired of being polite. And politically correct. And conscious of others. Sometimes, I wish I could just say what I think, and (1) not worry about offending someone, and (2) have comfort in knowing that the other person is such a strong, confident individual that they'd never be offended by my little comments. They'd just embrace my quirks as part of the complete Denese package & be totally cool with that.

What's prompting this post is (yet another) birthday invitation one of my son's received from a classmate. Here's the thing...the kid isn't even technically a class-mate. He's a grade-mate, if there is such a term. They're both in Kindergarten...and that's the ONLY thing these two kids have in common. Well, that, and the fact they both pee standing up. So why...WHY...did this kid feel compelled to invite my son to his birthday party? Or, more appropriately, why...WHY...did his MOTHER feel compelled to drag me into the wake of her son's birthday celebration?

Being the polite, politically correct gal that I am, I email RSVP'd* her back and said something about other obligations we had that day** and that we really appreciated the invitation but we were going to have to decline and have a great time and blah blah blah.

The next day, the mother sent an email to all the invitees saying how silly she had been to try and schedule her son's birthday party on a Saturday, a day when so many kids had other committments for things like sports, etc. She's going to be sending out another REVISED invitation this week with the newly rescheduled date and time of the party for her son. Frack.

So...here I am, biting myself in the butt. Why can't my RSVP*** just say "I'm sorry, but I don't know who the hell your son is, so why should I spend my husband's hard-earned money on a gift for a kid that my own son has never even mentioned before?" I just wish I could say what I'm thinking, and not worry about the message it conveys.

I wonder what the kid wants for his freakin' birthday...

* Thank GOD she provided an email option for me to opt-out in a quiet, non-verbal, non-committal kinda way.

** To be honest, we did have soccer games to attend. To be only partially-honest, the games were not even close to the same time as the birthday party...but still a somewhat valid "out" for us.

*** Or, better yet...not even RSVP! How about just deleting the whole event from my memory and having that be "okay" with everyone involved??

A Girl and Her Torch

2009-05-14T13:00:00.006-06:00

As you probably know, I began dabbling in jewelry "design" a couple of months ago. I originally hoped to turn it into a reasonablly profitable little business,* but I'm finding it takes a LOT of time to market oneself on the big "www". I'll be totally honest, I don't have time to spend marketing my little beauties, so I'm not sure how "profitable" this venture will turn out at the end of the year.

Even though I'm anticipating a net loss on the old Lily Tree Studio** income statement, I still really enjoy having a creative outlet for myself. I love bending and hammering the metal. I love the endless possibilities in bead combinations. And, now, I've discovered I REALLY love torching beads. I'll explain...

Lampworking is a term for melting rods of colored glass in a flame, and wrapping the glass around a mandrel to form a glass bead. I took a lampworking class a week ago, and this is what I made:

I am many, many, many hours away from creating anything that's worth putting into a piece of jewelry. Regardless of how much junk glass beads I end up making, I'll treasure the opportunities to don those awesome welding goggles, crank up the propane, and mold globs and globs of molten glass into various shapes and colors. And, someday, I might get to update this post with a picture of beads worthy of my inventory.

* A little "whoot-whoot!" shout-out to those of you that took the leap and purchased a pair of earrings. I hope you aren't too embarassed to wear the earrings out in public :)

** Shameless plug for my business. If I'm gonna spend the time to blog, I may as well throw a little self-promotion in there, too, right? www.lilytreestudio.etsy.com

The Forearm Farts

2009-04-21T23:13:00.004-06:00

It's a good thing I'm not a girly-girl...I don't think I could "hang" with my boys if I was.

My recently-turned 7-year-old, Ben, invited two of his best friends from school for a special birthday outting. He picked bowling, arcade games, and Red Robin for dinner*. I'm no 7-year-old, but I have to say, they seemed to have a blast.

Speaking of blasts...care to hazard a guess as to what the car ride home consisted of? Picture five boys (3 of whom are my own, 2 of whom were Ben's guests) all ages 7 and under, seeing who can make the most realistic sound effects by blowing wet raspberries on their forearms.

We all giggled the whole way home. I love my boys. It was awesome.

* His selections may have been slightly influenced by my husband and I. But, really...based on my previous post "Chicks Dig Scars...And Teeth", what was I supposed to do when Ben asked if we could go to House of Bounce for his birthday?!

Burn, Baby, Burn!

2009-04-19T22:38:00.003-06:00

Did you hear how much snow we just got?! It's mid-April, and up until a few days ago, we've had one of the driest seasons on record. Now, we're above-average on the moisture stats for our state. I know we needed the moisture, and I know the old adage about April Showers and May Flowers. But, I also know that it's April and I'm sick of winter.

Spring is my favorite time of year. Yah, the flowers are nice and all*, and seeing the baby cows sprout up in the pastures makes me feel a bit giddy & maternal (weird, I know)...but, you know what I love most about Spring? It's the time of year when I get to bid a fond** adieu to snow. And cold. And gray skies. And even my beloved Gap Long n' Lean BLUE JEANS!!!

There is something so invigorating about lugging my Rubbermaid bins back out of the basement. The bins that have been holding my capris and t-shirts hostage for the last 7 months. It's like reaquainting myself with old, but never-forgotten, friends again...the memories.

So, please forgive me, Mother Nature, when I see the piles (and piles, and piles) of snow that remain from your recent wrath, and I shout "Burn, baby, burn!". If you want my gratitude, then bring on the flowers...and the baby cows would be nice, too.

* I'm down-playing my sentiment on this. I actually LOVE flowers - especially the real ones that grow out of the ground and everything!

** Can't you just hear the sarcasm in my voice?

The Mom-Me Affair

2009-04-17T08:59:00.010-06:00

It seems that my boys permeate almost every aspect of my life...that's why I tend to write about them so much. They have become my life and it's inescapable. No, literally...no matter how fast I run, I cannot escape them.

However, there are a few, very precious, moments throughout my day and occasionally on weekends when I get to be Me...all Me...glorious Me. I'm not a very ego-centric kinda gal, but when I get Me Time, I find I enjoy spending time with myself and I fall in love with Me all over again.

Me loves getting pedicures, even when it tickles. Me loves to go shopping, though Me rarely finds anything that fits since Me is kinda tall and lanky. Me loves to sit in the sun* and let Me's mind wander and wonder. I look at Me and think "You're beautiful!" and I long for spending more time with Me. I equate it to a crush...wondering when I get to see Me again...what would Me be doing right now if I were with her...tell me that Me hasn't walked out of my life forever...you know, "crush-thoughts".

Am I scaring you? Sorry, blame it on Me...she can take criticism better than I can. I'm a mom and criticism might surely somehow reflect upon my boys in some way.

* No worries, Me has had three babies and will never horrify you with glimpses of post-baby-belly overflowing in a bikini.

Chicks Dig Scars...and Teeth (with Update)

2009-04-16T13:52:00.010-06:00

I have three boys. There's only room for one princess (that's me, btw) in our home. I think God gave me three boys for a reason*...not only because of the princess thing I just mentioned, but because he knows me better than I know myself. Translation: boys are way easier, and I don't have patience for drama.** Not that my boys can't be dramatic at times - good grief, I've certainly had to deal with plenty of "Johnny Drama" scenes around here. But, the high-maintenance type of drama that usually goes along with girls...that just cramps my style.

Over the last seven years, there's been numerous adventures and mishaps that have resulted in one or more of my boys running and screaming (somewhat dramatically and ever so slightly screaming like a girl) in search of a Band-aid and a kiss to make it better. I always took care to clean the wound with hydrogen-peroxide, add a dab of Neosporin and a Sponge Bob Band-aid, and finish off with a kiss. But, I do confess, I don't ever recall thinking "Gee, I really hope that doesn't scar." Maybe, subconsciously, I was really thinking "Chicks dig scars" and left it at that.

However, I also know that chicks dig teeth, too. A few months ago, my middle son and I were enjoying an outing with a friend of mine and her kids. It was winter, cold and crummy out and we thought it'd be great to let the kids blow off some energy at one of those "bounce house" type places. It was great...up until my son's tooth made contact with her son's skull. Enter Johnny Drama - crying and running to find me...only, this time, blood is all over his lips and teeth.***

Turns out he damaged the root of his tooth, and the tooth has been yellowish/grayish ever since. His pediatric dentist has been watching it, and at the last visit she said we may have to pull it at his next checkup. Two things: (1) thank goodness it's just a baby tooth, and (2) I'm thinking I should forbid him to ever go to one of those bounce-house places again. I'm not neurotic, really...but, the thought of having a repeat episode once he has his permanent teeth...it just makes me cringe.

Not that I relish the thought of my boys developing an interest in girls someday...but, I know it's going to happen, and I know that chicks dig guys who have teeth. So, why wouldn't I take some extra precautions to ensure he keeps his teeth? Scars, however...bring 'em on.

* I admit I secretly hoped for a girl during each one of my pregnancies...even had girl names picked out just in case the image we had seen on the ultrasound wasn't actually a boy-part.

** I never knew I didn't have much patience. This is a quirk I've grown to embrace since becoming a mom.

*** I'm rather proud of the amount of patience I had in dealing with that particular injury.

UPDATE (5/13/09): I am proud to say I recently took all three of my boys to House of Bounce and there were no injuries! Hooray...I can still claim I'm not neurotic!

Yes, Officer, I Know My Roots Are Showing (with Update)

2009-04-15T21:59:00.007-06:00

I drive a mini-van. I'll just get that out in the open right now. I never thought I would, but I do, so there...I'm a mini-van mom. Just because my mini-van is currently sporting two booster seats and one toddler seat (Britax, in case you're curious) and the floor is lined with Eggo remnants left behind during our busy shuffle to school each morning, does NOT mean I can't still rock out to some great tunes when I'm all by myself.*

Take today, for instance. Journey came on the radio, and I just don't see how anyone can restrain themselves from turning the volume up a notch or two, rolling back the sunroof, and singing along tune by tune (on pitch, or not). While singing along and driving to make my 2pm meeting, I was vaguely reminiscing about some 1980's bus trip to Girl Scout Camp during which someone had loaded her boom box with 8 size-D Duracells and a Journey tape, volume knob turned all the way to high, and the entire bus-load of girls hitting those high-pitched notes.

Anyhoo, I passed a motorcyle cop, admittedly glanced down at my speedometer to double-check my speed (not that I'm a speeder...but, I do tend to view Speed Limits as minimums, not maximums), breathed a sigh of relief to see that I was actually doing the Speed Minimum, and then panicked when I saw his lights flash & his hand motioning for me to pull over. What the??

Turns out the tags on our license plates had expired back in December - oops. Just to be clear, I honestly don't recall getting the usual reminder notice from our Clerk & Recorder's office...I'm guessing it got lost in the mail. Obviously, I need to stop relying on our county government to tell me when to renew our plates, and should perhaps put it on my calendar each December: "15th: Amidst the crazy holiday shopping, cooking and gift-wrapping, try to remember to shell out $500+ to the government for new license plate tags. 16th: return all the purchases at Toys R US, the boys don't really need gifts this year, anyway."

After filling out the pertinent info on my "citation"**, the officer glanced once more at my driver's license (presumably confirming whether my license "stats" were still holding true), looked up at me, and asked "So, is your hair blonde, or brown?" I'll admit it's been a couple of months since my last highlight appointment*** and I have been meaning to call my colorist to (1) remind her who I am, and (2) see if she can squeeze me in before summer, but to have a cop (a man cop, mind you) point out the fact that it's difficult to tell which color I'm going for...that's worse than the $93 fine I have to pay.

I'll post photos of my new highlights next week.

* This isn't entirely true. Occassionally, I force my 3 year-old to jam out with me...but, in my defense, he rarely protests.

** Using this term makes me feel better than saying "ticket"

*** Also not entirely true. I remember I had worn capris & flip-flops to my last appointment, which means it may have actually been August(ish) the last time I went. Which makes that how long? Oh, nevermind.

UPDATE 4/28: I decided on "blonde" (although, not necessarily "polished". Remember, I only get 12.8 minutes in the morning to primp & preen). Lovin' my new, much more consistent look now...

An Introduction to Me and My Mom-Guilt

2009-04-14T23:49:00.007-06:00

Why on earth am I starting to Blog? Well...let's just say "mom-guilt" has something to do with it.

Shortly after my oldest son, Ben (now 7), was born, I decided to quit my job and be a stay-at-home-mom. It wasn't a tough decision...after my 12 weeks of maternity leave, I tried to return to work on a part-time, work-from-home basis. That lasted for a few weeks, until my boss told me she really needed me to be in the office. "Okay" I thought, "no big deal. It's just a few hours a week. Heck, it might be kinda nice to get out of the house and talk to grown-ups again." My then neighbor happened to be an at-home mom with a one-year-old and offered to watch Ben while I was away. I was thrilled that he wasn't going to be in daycare...but, also terrified that he would begin to think that the neighbor-lady was really his mom & what if he forgot all about me & what if he did something amazing while I was gone & how on earth would she be able to hold him just right, or be sure to do baby massage when he was fussy, or, or... I got a grip, gave it a shot, and told my neighbor "If he does anything amazing while I'm gone, don't tell me...I don't want to know that I missed it." Two weeks later, I came to pick him up and the first thing she said was "He rolled over!" That was it...I quit my job the next day, and haven't regretted it since. Sure, it's been tough not having the extra money...and, yes, there's been many days when I thought I'd kill myself if I had to watch Barney one more time & pretend like I enjoyed singing the "I Love You, You Love Me" song at the end. But, getting to experience all of Ben's (and Colin's, and Adam's) "firsts" SO out-weighs the tough times. I love that I've been able to be home with all of them. Which leads me to my "mom guilt".

I have been there for every milestone, every spit-up, (almost!) every diaper change. I've seen them go from newborns, to babies, to toddlers to little boys. I've kissed more bumps & bruises & scrapes than I can remember. I've played, wrestled, snuggled, danced, laughed, sang & cried with them. I have not, however, scrapbooked any of this. I think it's because I'm a stay-at-home mom that I've neglected to set aside time to chronicle and immortalize their every movements into a photographic timeline. I've often caught myself thinking "I should really write this down in (so-and-so)'s baby book", often followed by "I'll do that tomorrow, when I have more time". So many tomorrow's have passed, and I still haven't done it. I'm quite certain that my children are the only ones in our neighborhood who have no idea what they looked like as babies. Sure, we have a few framed photos on our walls, and I'm guessing that my oldest has likely put two-and-two together and at least deduced that one of those kids must have been him. But, it's not like they have piles of scrapbooks (or, heck, even photo albums...do they still make those?) to sift through whenever they feel like it.

Am I a crappy mom? Will they resent me when they're older? I like to think that my neglect will eventually play in my favor when they're in their teenage years...after all, what teenager actually WANTS photos of themselves as naked babies, tucked in albums on the coffee table for just anyone to see? But, someday, they might want to sift through a record of their childhoods. And, you know what makes all of this even worse? I actually have a ton (ton!) of scrapbooking supplies in my possession. The printed paper, the stickers, the pens...all acid-free of course. I even have printed photos from Ben's first 8 months of his life...that's as far as I got. I had GREAT intentions...it was just the follow-through that escaped me. Mom guilt.

At one point, I acknowledged that scrapbooking might not be my "thing" and perhaps I should try journaling instead. I know this because I have about 40 blank journals sitting in a box in my basement. I believe it was right after my second son, Colin (now 5), was born that I had the grand idea of starting a journal for each of them...a once-a-week recap of things they had done and said, with the intention of doing this up until their high-school graduation (hence, why I purchased 40 journals) and presenting each of them with a biographical 20-volume-set of their lives while under my care. I made 5 entries...the last one was about 4 years ago. Clearly, journaling isn't my "thing" either. More mom guilt.

So, now I have my third son, Adam (who just turned 3), and I feel exponentially more guilty because I haven't even attempted any type of record-keeping with him. I figure a Blog might just be the "thing" that will work, since I certainly don't have time to cut & trim photos on cute card stock, nor put pen to paper, what with three boys now. What more efficient way to chronicle their lives with an occassional little JPEG image to boot? I'll simply post an entry every so often, add some photos, and present them with the weblink at their graduations. Perfect! I feel my mom guilt ebbing ever so slightly :)